Snow (4 page)

Chapter Thirty-four
Snow

Chapter Thirty-five
Awake

Chapter Thirty-six
Awoken

Chapter Thirty-seven
Not Herself

Chapter Thirty-eight
The Lonely Ones

Chapter Thirty-nine
A Ball

Chapter Forty
Endings

Epilogue

Prologue

A
lone figure walked down the dark aisle of a church. She was dressed for travel in plain gray with a heavy wool cloak, which fastened around her head like a nun’s habit, hiding her face. The stones beneath her were ancient and cold; her footsteps echoed off every stone column and arch. She pulled the cloak tightly around her as the shadows crept up her skin and chilled her to the bone.

Light struggled and lost here: It strained through dim stained glass windows, glowed from occasional candles, and glinted off a golden locket at the girl’s neck.

She walked past the altar to one of the side chapels, where previous dukes and duchesses had been buried over the long centuries. Their bodies were encased in stone coffins, some of which had the likenesses of those within carved in relief on the top. She used to come here often, to run away, to spend time quietly, to look at the strange gargoyles and
tombs, to pretend to mourn, to mourn, to think. The dead never bothered her—except that she wondered how they really looked, in life.

She took out the locket she wore and looked at the miniature within. From everything she was told, her mother did indeed resemble her painting—with a few exceptions. She had longer lashes and fuller eyebrows, and a face bent more toward smiling than serenity. She wore her hair down in a braid, not up in a chaste bun. She had looked very much like her daughter, people told her.

She willed the colors in the tiny oil painting to flow into the stone, to open the coffin and present her mother again, alive.

“Good-bye,” the girl said simply, kneeling. “I love you, and will return someday. Please, watch over me in my travels. Keep me safe.” She bent her head in prayer. Tears welled up in black eyes. Motionless she stayed, even at the sound of footsteps padding behind her.

“It’s time to go, Jessica,” the boy whispered.

She nodded and wiped her tears. He was older and dressed in a servant’s uniform, complete with cap and knickers, but he put his arm around her like a brother and led her gently away.

They walked together through the church and out to the field. It was gray and damp and misting slightly; the grass blew with the possibility of a storm. A carriage was waiting, a wagon really, with
two old draft horses and an old man with a pipe at their reins.

“Good-bye, Jessica,” the servant said, and kissed her on the cheek. “Remember that I love you. Keep safe.”

“Good-bye, Alan. I will miss you, and Kenigh Hall.” She said it bravely, like a queen, but tears kept running down her face. He helped her up onto the cart and threw a bag in after her. The wagon began to move at a pace slower than walking. The two horses ambled as if they had all the time in the world. The servant boy cast a worried eye on the church and estate behind them. Slowly the horses gained speed, and soon she was halfway down the hill, standing up and waving.

“Farewell!” he cried.

“Farewell,” she whispered. Then she turned around and sat down so she could see the road ahead and what lay in store for her.

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